


Just Another Monday Morning

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-13
Updated: 2008-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a handsome and ambitious new DCI arrives Gene thinks he may have designs on Sam – will the threat of Sam leaving finally force Gene's hand? Yep, rom-com clichés galore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Monday Morning

That particular morning started out pretty much the same as any other.   
   
The alarm clock went off at what seemed to be an ungodly hour, Gene's flailing hand knocking it off the table to stop it ringing.   
   
Clothes thrown on carelessly.   
   
Bacon butty and mug of tea from the canteen.   
   
Morning newspaper in his office interrupted at page five by Tyler storming in waving a piece of paper.  
   
"When exactly were you going to tell me?"  
   
"Let's assume I'm not a bloody mind reader. Tell you about what?"  
   
Sam slapped the paper down on the desk.  
   
"DCI James Sinclair from the Metropolitan Police is apparently arriving today for a week of observation and fact finding."  
   
Gene put the Manchester Guardian down with slow deliberation.  
"No, that's next week."  
   
Sam returned his level gaze. "No, that's _this_ week. Monday 10th. Today."  
   
They looked at each other. "Shit," said Gene.   
   
In the next moment their attention was drawn to the outer room where a figure swung back the doors and strode, in what could only be described as a majestic manner, towards Gene's office.  
   
"Christ on a bike." Gene muttered.  
   
"No, I think that's DCI Sinclair."  
   
   
***  
   
DCI James Sinclair breezed into their squad room like a man who had the world at his feet. He exuded a refined air of calm authority, matched only by the impeccable tailoring of his suit and the tasteful styling of his coiffure. He was tall, with dark hair and striking blue eyes, and looked considerably younger than the forty-two years recorded in his file.  
   
Gene Hunt hated him on sight.   
   
And now, two days later, Gene had seen nothing to make him revise his opinion. He peered through the blinds on his office window, seeing Sam talking animatedly to Sinclair who was hanging on his every word. Gene gritted his teeth.  
   
Gene's plan had been to palm him off with Chris, confident that a whole day with him would have Sinclair gnawing his own foot off in desperation to cut his visit short.  
   
At least that _had_ been his plan, until Rathbone had pointed out how crucial this visit was, and that Sinclair had influential contacts, and that under no circumstances should Gene lumber him with "that nincompoop Skelton".  
   
Reluctantly, Gene had been forced to assign this job to Sam: their resident gay-boy science expert, and the only one of them who could talk convincingly (not to mention at great length) about 'innovative investigative methodologies'. It might take Tyler out of the action for a few days but it would keep Sinclair out of Gene's hair, so the trade-off was probably worth it.    
   
But watching through the window of his office Gene now wasn't so sure.  
   
Sinclair and Sam were sitting at Tyler's desk, heads bent close together over some file or other.   
   
A bit _too_ close, in Gene's opinion.  
   
Gene scowled. He had thought at first that Sinclair was simply impressed by Sam's professionalism. But now he was convinced it had a lot less to do with the contents of Sam's brain and a lot more to do with the contents of his trousers.   
   
And Tyler was clueless. For a man who was usually a right clever-clogs he could be completely blind when it came to recognising the bleeding obvious.   
   
Gene lit a fag and inhaled deeply. What he needed was some excuse to pull Sam off the baby-sitting job and get him away from the slimy bastard. He blew a lungful of smoke up to the ceiling. Why was there never a mini crime wave when you needed one?  
   
   
***  
   
   
Gene had just got through his first pint of the day and was starting to relax when the door of the Railway Arms opened and Sam walked in. Gene's words of greeting died on his lips, however, as he saw DCI Sinclair hot on his heels. God knows what had possessed Tyler to invite Sinclair to the Arms after work, but here he was, stepping up to the bar. At least he had his wallet out. He turned to smile at Gene.  
   
"What can I get you, DCI Hunt?"  
   
"I'll have a pint. With a whisky chaser - make it a double."   
   
Sinclair put their orders in with Nelson while Gene turned his back to the bar to watch Sam competing at darts.  
   
"How long has DI Tyler been with you?"  
   
Oh God, he was going to have to suffer through a conversation if he wanted a free pint. _Bloody fantastic_.  
   
"Just over a year."  
   
"And he comes from somewhere near here, is that right?"  
   
"Hyde."  
   
"Hmm." Sinclair paid for their drinks and handed Gene his pint. "Does he have any other ties to the area?"  
   
Gene cocked his head to one side, as though considering.  
   
"Let me see: well, he lives here, he works here, and all his mates are here, but apart from that, no, I don't think so."  
   
Sinclair smiled but the humour didn't seem to reach his eyes.  
   
"I just wondered how he would feel about moving. I've got a task-force to put together, and from what I've seen of DI Tyler so far, I'd like him as my right-hand man."  
   
Gene could well imagine what he wanted Sam to do with his right hand. He returned Sinclair's gaze with an impassive expression.   
   
"You'd have to ask him about that."  
   
Sinclair gave a slight nod, his smile small and secretive. "I will. You have a good team here, DCI Hunt, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that. And I can understand that Sam is a big part of it, but this would be a great opportunity for him. I'm sure you wouldn't want to stand in his way."  
   
His smile widened, reminding Gene unaccountably of a shark, then Sinclair turned and headed over to Sam, drinks in hand.   
   
Gene's eyes narrowed. That was it. Sinclair may have looks, class, brains, and an E-type Jag, but he was _not_ going to have Sam Tyler as well. Not if Gene had anything to say about it.  
   
   
   
***  
   
   
When Gene thought about it later, he realised that it wasn't the fact that Sinclair had taken Sam off for dinner somewhere, or even the fact that before he went Sinclair beat Gene at darts. No, it was the way that Sam had smiled at the man – that full, ear-to-ear smile that Gene secretly hankered after and saw far too infrequently for his liking – that was the thing that _really_ hurt. And so here he was, several pints and one hand-shandy later, lying in bed wide awake obsessing over it.  
   
God, he was turning into an even bigger girl than bloody Tyler.  
   
A few months back, when he'd first realised that the sight of Tyler in tight trousers led to some serious tightness problems in his own, Gene had tried to apply reason. It had to be a freak occurrence, like that bit in the Bible about plagues or raining frogs or something, because he absolutely did _not_ fancy his DI.   
   
Because Gene Hunt was _not_ queer.  
   
The fact that he wasn't queer didn't, however, stop the trouser problem from recurring, along with some impressive day-dreams involving sherbet dips and far more of Tyler's skin than he was ever likely to see.   
   
Gene rolled over in bed, flopping onto his back to stare up at the darkened ceiling.  
   
Maybe he'd been too lazy, assuming that things with Sam would just go on indefinitely as they were. Thinking that they had all the time in the world.   
   
Because if he _didn't_ make a move, then it couldn't go horribly wrong and ruin what was a perfectly good working relationship with the best DI he'd ever had, not to mention a good personal friendship with someone he liked being with.   
   
Which was all fine and dandy as long as Sam was his. Well, not so much _his,_ but at least not anyone else's.  
   
So what if it had been bloody ages since he'd felt the touch of someone else. He _could_ have done, if he'd wanted. It would be easy enough to rustle up one of the local prossies who owed him a favour.   
   
And he still had Mrs. Luckhurst's phone number tucked in the back of his wallet. That would be easy – her husband didn't mind what she got up to, and Gene's wife, currently living with a dentist somewhere in Macclesfield, was hardly in a position to complain.  
   
But the problem was that while he still admired a nice pair of tits in a jumper, what he was thinking about most of the time was a flat male chest, tapering down to narrow hips and tight arse, and a hard --  
   
No.  
   
He was not going to think about that. Not again.  
   
He rolled over, punching the pillow in frustration. Bloody Tyler.   
   
Gene might not be queer, but he _was_ a copper, and he really couldn't ignore the evidence any longer.   
   
If the headache, the cold sweat, and the churning in his gut was anything to go by then either he had food poisoning or he, Gene Hunt, had finally fallen in love.   
   
With a bloke.   
   
A bloke who was annoying and stubborn, clever and funny, and probably a bit touched in the head.  
 

_Bloody brilliant_.  
   
   
***  
   
   
"So just how seriously are we taking this tip-off?" Sinclair asked.  
   
Gene turned to him, fighting to keep his voice level. "Are you questioning the reliability of my snout?"  
   
"Well, yes, quite frankly. I think we should evaluate the probability and the level of the risk before we decide what action to take."  
   
"You sure he's not from Hyde?" Ray muttered to Chris under his breath.  
   
Chris snorted, but managed to turn it into a cough. Everyone else gathered in the squad room was silent, their eyes on Gene.  
   
Gene folded his arms to stop himself taking a swing for Sinclair's smugly square jaw. "This particular snout owes me, and he knows not to come to me with rubbish. If he says there's going to be a major bank raid on the branch in Westcott Street within the next couple of days, then there will be."   
   
He pushed away from the desk he'd been leaning on, planting his hands on his hips. "DI Tyler and I have arranged to use the office across the road as a surveillance post, and you're all on the roster. I want these bastards caught in the act, so if it goes down you'd better be bloody ready for it!"  
   
Sinclair caught up with him as Gene headed into his office. "I see my name's not on your duty roster."  
   
"That's right." Gene turned to face him. "Although if you've decided to join in, perhaps you can go along to help brief the bank's staff?"  
   
"Certainly." Sinclair stepped closer, speaking in a confidential tone. "Please understand, DCI Hunt, it's simply good practice to question the veracity of information we receive; it was nothing personal."  
   
There was an expression of warm sincerity on Sinclair's face which had Gene stuffing his twitching hands into his pockets before they could throttle the man of their own accord.  
   
"And as for the surveillance, I can partner DI Tyler – I'm sure we can spend the time productively. It will also free up one of your team for other duties. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."  
   
He patted Gene's arm and turned away, heading towards Sam's desk.  Gene briefly considered tackling him to the ground and giving him a good pummelling, but a strangely Sam-like voice popped into his head to remind him that discretion is the better part of valour.   
   
By the time he'd dismissed it as a load of old cobblers, Sinclair was walking out of the room, his hand on Sam's shoulder.  
 

_Bollocks_.  
   
   
***  
   
Sam squinted through the binoculars at the front of the bank on the street below; DCI Sinclair was seated next to him, notebook in hand. They had passed the morning with an interesting discussion about blood spatter pattern analysis, and had just started talking about staff appraisal methods when the door swung open. Sam looked up in surprise: he hadn't been expecting the next shift until 2pm, but there was Gene with Chris tagging along behind.  
   
"How's it going, my little Deputy Dawg?"  
   
Sam put down the binoculars. "Pretty normal Thursday morning so far, Guv. Nothing untoward. They're just closing for the lunch hour."  
   
"Well, in that case, DCI Sinclair, you are relieved." Gene set down the plastic bag he was carrying and peeled off his coat, slinging it over the back of a chair.  
   
Sinclair looked up, eyebrow raised. "We had just started talking about staff appraisals, actually--"  
   
"Which I'm sure was absolutely riveting, but as a special treat I've arranged for Chris here to take you back to the station and go through our cross-referencing system with you." Gene clapped Chris forcefully on the back, and Chris gave a rather sickly smile.  
   
Sinclair rose and straightened his jacket.  
   
"Well, how can I refuse such a generous offer?" He smiled.  
   
Gene smiled back.  
   
Sam looked from Gene to Sinclair and back again, trying to work out what the odd undercurrent was.  
   
Chris cleared his throat nervously. "Erm, I'm parked on a double-yellow."  
   
"Ah, of course." Sinclair turned to smile at Sam. "I'll see you this evening, Sam," he said in a low, confidential tone, before following Chris out of the room.  
   
Sam raised a hand in farewell, and turned his attention to Gene. "What was all that about?" Sam asked, bemused.  
   
"Good experience for Chris," Gene replied simply, but Sam couldn't help feeling that the innocent expression on his face looked decidedly suspicious.  
   
He got up from his perch and wandered over to the desk to see what Gene was unpacking from the carrier bag.  
   
Sandwiches. Freshly-made with doorsteps of bread and thick slices of ham from the butcher's shop in the market.   
   
"Blimey. What's this in aid of?"  
   
"Didn't Napoleon say that an army marches on its stomach?"  
   
Sam looked up, surprised. "Yeah, but I don't think he bothered to buy them their favourite sarnies."  
   
Gene just shrugged, and handed him a paper napkin and a bottle of beer, causing Sam's eyebrows to climb higher.  
   
"What else have you got in there, a set of silk scarves and a rabbit?"  
   
"Good God, Tyler, I had no idea you were so kinky." Gene peered into the bag. "No, 'fraid not – will a flask of tea and a packet of Garibaldis do instead?"  
   
Sam pulled up a chair and then paused, eyes narrowing. "You aren't just about to ask me to do all that paperwork for the Rawlins case, are you? Or to do night-shift all over the weekend?"  
   
Gene shook his head with a theatrical sigh. "Sad to see such a suspicious nature in one so young."  
   
Sam flashed him a grin, and tucked into his sandwich.  
   
They were busy arguing the toss over the offside rule, Gene brandishing a tea-soaked Garibaldi for emphasis, when the radio squawked into life. Gene picked it up with his free hand. "Hunt."  
   
Sam could hear smooth tones, and recognised his own name. Sinclair. Gene's expression hardened and he held the radio out to Sam wordlessly.   
   
"Tyler here."   
   
"Sam, sorry to bother you on duty, but I thought I'd just let you know I reserved a table tonight at Chez Paul at 8 o'clock. I hope that sounds all right."  
   
"Er, yes, fine."  
   
"What time should I pick you up?"  
   
"I suppose 7.30pm would be about right."  
   
Gene spoke up, interrupting him. "Tell him to meet you at the Railway Arms for a drink first – my shout."  
   
Somewhat surprised, Sam relayed the message.  
   
There was a brief pause before Sinclair replied. "That sounds delightful. A bientôt."   
   
Sam thought he detected a slightly wry tone in Sinclair's voice. He looked up to see Gene frowning, nose wrinkled in disgust.  
   
"Was that actual _French_?"  
   
***  
   
It was spot-on 7 o'clock when Sam wandered into the Railway Arms. Seeing Gene at the bar, he headed over to lean against the counter next to him.   
   
"What you having, Sammy?"  
   
"Pint, please."  
   
Sam raised an eyebrow as Gene bought the drinks without any quibble over whose round it was. Pints in hand, they relaxed into easy conversation, moving into a good-natured argument over the likely outcome of the footy match the coming weekend.  
   
After twenty minutes or so Sam glanced at his watch. After a few more minutes of Sam checking his watch and looking at the door, Gene cleared his throat.  
   
"Oh, yeah, meant to tell you: Sinclair called the office just before I left to say that he wasn't going to be able to make it tonight."  
   
Sam blinked at him in surprise. "Oh. Right."   
   
Gene gave a casual shrug "Tell you what, rather than let that reservation go to waste, why don't I take you out for dinner?"  
   
Sam blinked again. "Well…yeah, OK."  
   
Feeling bemused, Sam finished off his pint as Gene shrugged on his coat. "After all, can't have my DI being stood up, now, can I."  
   
Sam placed his now-empty glass on the bar. "He is all right, though?"  
   
"Oh yeah; some sort of car trouble I think. Anyway, I've got a radio in case anyone needs to reach us urgently." Gene patted the bulge in his coat pocket.  
   
They walked towards the door and Gene swung it open, waving Sam through first with a flourish.  
   
"Come on, Gladys; your carriage awaits."  
   
   
***  
   
   
This _had_ seemed like an excellent plan: get Sam alone somewhere nice and romantic with no interruptions and find out how he felt. Walking into Chez Paul however, Gene wished that he'd suggested somewhere different, as the posh décor and snooty French waiter weren't doing anything to put the butterflies in his stomach at ease.  
   
After a glance at the seemingly vast menu he simply handed Sam the wine list and picked himself a steak, studiously ignoring the prices. Couldn't go wrong with a steak, he reasoned, and he had a fair chance of being able to work out which knife and fork he was supposed to use.   
   
He looked over at Sam who was reading through the wine list, nibbling at his bottom lip, tiny frown line between his brows. How could he look so gorgeous doing something so simple? Gene rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. This was bloody ridiculous. He had to get a grip, for God's sake. He was a grown man who faced down violent criminals on a daily basis, not some soppy schoolgirl with a crush.   
   
All he needed to do was to get Sam talking. The man actually _liked_ serious conversations about feelings and stuff, so Gene just had to get them started and let Sam yap away. He could work out how to play it from there.  
   
How hard could it be?  
   
***  
   
"So what do you think of Sinclair?"  
   
Gene had waited until after their main course to get things going. Shame to ruin a damn good steak after all; although having finished it he couldn't seem to remember what it tasted like. He sat back as the waiter cleared their plates, and tried to look nonchalant.  
   
"Um…He has some good ideas for best practice. I think he'll do a good job of defining a standard set of recommended procedures."  
   
"Yes, but what do you think about _him_?"  
   
Sam thought for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass. "He's very driven; highly motivated. Knows what he wants and isn't afraid to ask for it."  
   
Gene's mouth went dry. Bloody hell – surely Sinclair hadn't just propositioned Sam outright? He took a hefty swig of wine before asking his next question, trying to sound as casual as possible.  
   
"So, what sort of – _things-_ does he want?"  
   
"Oh, you know; to hand-pick his team, to run pilot programmes for new procedures…why are you so interested, anyway?"  
   
"I meant…It's just that _he_ seems very interested in _you_."  
   
Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, he's got lots of questions, and we've had some stimulating conversations."  
   
"Yes, but he seems a bit _too_ interested, if you get my drift."  
   
Sam looked puzzled. "I don't think I do…"  
   
Gene put his glass down with an exasperated sigh. "You really are dense sometimes, Tyler. He fancies you."  
   
Sam stared at him in disbelief, so Gene leant forward and continued.  
   
"Wants to try out a bit of uphill gardening. Get a bit of downstairs inside. Make the old pillow-biting beast with two backs. Wants to play hide the--"  
   
"I know what it means!" Sam hissed, interrupting him. "But you're wrong. Even if he _is_ gay – which, by the way, I don't think is necessarily true – he hasn't made any improper moves. He may be friendly, but in a strictly professional way."  
   
Gene raised a questioning eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak but Sam interrupted him again, leaning over the table and struggling to keep his voice low.  
   
"And what's more, I can't believe you would come up with something ridiculous like this just because you don't like him! You really are a boorish homophobe, aren't you?"  
   
This really wasn't going as well as Gene had hoped.  
   
He took a deep breath and spoke again. "Look, I don't give a rat's arse what – or who – Sinclair does in bed, I'm only saying this to warn you because for some strange reason you can't see what's bleeding well staring you in the face!"  
   
"Oh, really. Well, fine. Thanks for the kindly-meant observations, but you can keep them to yourself," Sam snapped. "I don't see that it's any of your business, anyway."  
   
Gene sighed. "I'm not trying to be a bastard—"  
   
"Makes a change."  
   
"—I just want you to know what you might be getting yourself into. It's up to you if you fancy the stuck-up git."   
   
Gene paused, hoping Sam would jump in with a denial, but he didn't. That wasn't necessarily a bad sign, Gene reasoned; at least Sam hadn't denied that he fancied men as a general concept.  
   
Perhaps he needed to try a more direct approach. He took a deep breath, toying with his wine glass to stop his hands from shaking.   
   
"Look; there's something else I want to talk to you about."   
   
Sam looked at him, his frown of annoyance giving way to an expression of curiosity.  
   
"What is it?"  
   
"Well, it's just that I've been doing a bit of thinking recently. About the fact that I'm now - well, as of next month, actually - I'll be divorced. A free man, so to speak." He looked up at Sam. "And I think it's about time I resurrected my sorry excuse for a love life."  
   
Curiously, Sam went a bit pale. "Oh. Well, good for you, Gene," he said, with a rather uncertain smile.  
   
"Yeah, well, maybe you'd better wait until you hear the rest of it," Gene muttered. "So, the thing is, see, that…" he faltered. "There's someone..." he held Sam's gaze, willing him to make the connections, not wanting to have to spell it out.  
   
Sam's smile faded a little. "You…um. You're not rushing into anything here, are you?"  
   
"No, I've been interested in this particular someone for quite a while now." He gazed at Sam in what he hoped was a meaningful way.  
   
Sam nodded, his smile now wider and genuine.  
   
Relief coursed through him. Thank Christ—   
   
"Well if you're sure then I'm happy for you. And who is she? Do I know her?"  
 

_Oh bollocks_. Gene rubbed a hand across his forehead.  
   
"No—well, yes, in a way…_Gladys_."  
   
He looked up, to see Sam gazing at him expectantly.  
   
"Well, come on, then. Who is she?"  
   
The man really was a complete idiot sometimes.   
   
There was nothing else for it. Gene was going to have to just spill the beans. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say—  
   
"I've looked all over for you."  
   
Gene opened his eyes to see James Sinclair standing there. _Bastard_.  
   
Sam quickly stood, apologising for having gone to dinner without him, as the waiter fetched another chair and place setting.  
   
Gene sat back in his chair and drained his glass. _Bugger_.  
   
"I tried the Railway Arms first, of course," Sinclair was saying as he took a seat.  
   
Sam was smiling and nodding at Sinclair. "Well, I got your message, but I didn't think you could make it - car trouble, I gather?"   
   
"Yes. The slight problem of finding it up on bricks with no wheels."  
   
Sam made a suitably sympathetic noise and shot a narrow-eyed glare at Gene. _Bollocks_.  
   
Gene shook his head sadly. "Shocking, that. People have no respect for personal property these days."  
   
Sinclair took a sip of wine. "I tried to get hold of you to let you know I was on my way by taxi, but the desk sergeant said she couldn't get any response by radio."   
   
"Strange," said Gene.  
 

_Bollocks again_.  
   
Sam held out his hand pointedly. Gene withdrew the radio from his pocket and handed it over. "Perhaps it broke since you used it earlier on," he mumbled.  
   
Sam hefted it before sliding it into his own pocket without even looking at it. "Perhaps it just needs new batteries," he said between gritted teeth.  
   
"Well," said Sinclair brightly, "it seems I have missed the main course." He gestured to the waiter. "But perhaps dessert and a coffee?"  
   
Sam turned to him with a wide smile. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. In fact, why don't I keep you company and we can continue our discussion while DCI Hunt follows up your stolen wheels?"  
   
Gene shifted uneasily in his seat.   
   
"After all, I'm confident that the Guv can find them if anyone can, and it is best to follow it up before the trail goes cold. Wouldn't you say, Guv?" Sam and Sinclair both turned to look at him.  
   
_Bollocks bollocks bastard bollocks._  
   
   
***  
   
It was late by the time Gene made it home, tired and pissed-off that he'd not only had to hunt around for Charlie Barnes, but when he finally found him in the pub he'd had to pay him an extra fiver to get him to agree to sneak the wheels back onto Sinclair's car some time in the early hours of the morning.  
   
He slumped into his armchair and lit up a fag.   
   
He had made a right muck up of things tonight. Sam had pretty much guessed what he'd done, right down to having removed the batteries from the radio. Bloody typical of the awkward little git not to have cottoned on to the one thing Gene was trying to tell him.  
   
He reached for the scotch, poured himself a hefty slug and downed it.   
   
He couldn't have made more of an utter fool of himself if he had got down on one knee. Not only had he completely failed to pull off a romantic seduction, but he'd managed to convince Sam that he was a homophobic bigot with a pathetic line in practical jokes.   
 

_Well done, Gene_.   
   
He poured himself another scotch and leaned forward, with a long sigh, to rest his head in his hands.  
   
If Tyler decided to bail out for London then Gene couldn't really blame him after this fiasco. After all, Sinclair was offering him a job he'd love, working for someone who listened to him and valued him…   
   
His glass was empty again; he abandoned it in favour of swigging from the bottle.   
   
But dammit, _he_ valued Sam. And he _did_ listen to him - even though half the time Tyler sounded as mad as a March Hare.  
   
Gene took another mouthful of scotch, feeling it burning its way down to his gut.   
   
At least things couldn't get much worse.  
   
   
***  
   
Of course, he really should have learned long before now not to tempt fate.  
   
Gene chucked the remains of his bacon butty in the bin. Maybe the scotch had been dodgy. Or the bacon had been past its best. Whatever it was that had his guts feeling like he was at sea in a force-10 storm, it had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the fact that Sam was sitting out there at his desk wearing one of James Sinclair's shirts.   
   
He watched from his office as Sam rolled back one too-long sleeve, peering distractedly at the papers in front of him. Then he got up and headed towards Gene's office, file in hand.  
   
If Sam wondered why the blinds were swaying, or why Gene looked a little flushed, he didn't mention it. The file landed on his desk.  
   
"This needs your signature."  
   
Gene glanced at it. "Right."  
   
Sam folded his arms. "So did you have fun last night?"  
   
Gene sniffed. "It was all right, although I generally prefer my steak a bit more well-done."  
   
Sam nodded slowly, lips pursed, and turned for the door.   
   
"Anyway, shouldn't I be asking you that?" Even as the words left his mouth Gene cringed, but managed to muster his best expression of blithe unconcern as Sam turned slowly back to face him.  
   
He pointed to Sam's shirt sleeves, and Sam gave a sigh.  
   
"All right. Not that it's any of your business. But if you must know, we had quite a bit to drink and it got late, and I spent the night in James's hotel room."  
   
Sam raised his chin as though defying Gene to say I told you so.  
   
"Told you so."  
   
Sam's eyes narrowed, fixing Gene with a piercing look. He opened his mouth as though to retort but then seemed to reconsider. He cleared his throat instead and his expression hardened.  
   
"I need to start my shift at the stakeout, so is that it, Guv?"  
   
Gene blinked at him. He'd expected some sort of reaction. Maybe a fight with some healthy male physical contact. Or a bit of shouting leading to Sam confessing to having made a mistake, preferably topped off with a big dollop of regret and apologies all round.   
   
But no; that really did seem to be it.  
   
   
***  
   
It was midday, and Gene and Ray were on their way to interview a witness in the Rawlins case when the radio squawked, sounding loud in the confines of the Cortina.   
   
"Yeah?-I mean, DS Carling."  
   
Gene strained but could only hear a tinny voice and a lot of crackling at the other end.  
   
Ray frowned. "What was that about the bank, Boss?"  
   
Gene glanced over at Ray, tensing up in his seat.  
   
Ray glanced at his watch. "It's _meant_ to be locked. It's dinner time." He gave a snort. "What do you mean, they can't get them open? Haven't the bank staff got the keys?"  
   
With a muttered curse, Gene snatched the radio from him.  
   
"—locked or jammed from the inside."  
   
"On our way, Sammy. Just stay put."  
   
Gene dropped the radio into his lap as he spun the wheel of the Cortina, executing a u-turn with a squeal of tyres and causing a nearby van to brake hard. He grabbed the radio again, mentally plotting the shortest route to Westcott Street.  
   
"—going to look round the back—"  
   
Gene gritted his teeth, overtaking a slow-moving Morris Minor and accelerating through a junction just as the lights turned red. "Are you both armed?"  
   
"I am." A pause. "James isn't back from lunch yet."  
   
Gene swore under his breath and twisted the wheel to avoid an on-coming bus.  
   
"I'm going to switch off the radio – it makes too much noise."  
   
"No! Tyler, you bloody wait for back-up!"  
   
"I'll be careful."  
   
"Will you just for once listen to me!"   
   
Static. Shit shit _shit_.  
   
He dropped the radio again and concentrated on getting to the bank, taking a left off Cranbourne Road to avoid the busy junction, and then onto Upper Street, then slammed on the brakes as a funeral cortège drove slowly by.   
   
Gene thumped the steering wheel. He just needed to get there. Just needed Sam to be okay until he got there. He threw the car into a fast reverse and took a right turn into a narrow alley. He really didn't care if Sam had shagged Sinclair so long as he was OK, because God only knew Tyler had a nose for trouble and Gene would wring his bloody neck for wandering off on his own like that, not to mention what he would do to Sinclair—  
   
The radio crackled. Gene snatched it up. "Sam!"  
   
"I'm round the back now, but there's no sign of bother. No alarm ringing…"  
   
The Cortina barrelled out of the lane onto a main road and Gene leant heavily on the accelerator. "Sam, listen to me—"  
   
"There's no sign of anything: it's all locked up as usual. I don't get it…"  
   
"Maybe it's just a problem with the front doors." Even as he said it, the ball of fear in his gut was tightening.  
   
"I don't think…wait…I have to check something."  
   
"Sam? Sam!"  
   
"Gene!" Sam's voice was a low hiss. "The undertaker next door – it's a scam! The back doors are open and there's nothing inside. Wait – there's some rubble…bloody hell, they must have tunnelled their way in—"  
   
"Get out of there, Sam!"  
   
"No, it's OK, the place is empty. Completely empty…SHIT! I must have just missed them!"  
   
Gene blinked. For the second time that day, he dropped the radio as he spun the car into another u-turn, rubber burning and car horns blaring. Ray grabbed onto the dashboard and shot him a worried look.  
   
"It's those bloody funeral cars!" Gene yelled, accelerating hard.  
   
***  
   
By the time Sam and Sinclair made it back to the station it was all over.  
   
They had stayed at the bank to take witness statements from the staff, and so had missed the seven mile car chase involving the Cortina, five squad cars, and a roadblock which Gene had improvised by commandeering a furniture removal van. All the bank robbers were in custody and no-one was seriously hurt, although the piano would probably never sound quite the same again.   
   
Sam walked into the squad room to find that the team had cracked open a celebratory Watney's Party Seven and were toasting what appeared to be an open coffin stuffed full of bank notes.  
   
Gene stood, fixing Sam with a gimlet eye.  
   
"Don't suppose there's any point in me telling you that the next time you go off on your own like that I'll string you up by your balls?"  
   
Sam gave a tired shrug. "Not really, no."  
   
"Didn't think so." Gene sniffed, and handed him a mug of beer.  
   
Sam took it with a rueful smile and they exchanged a look ofunderstanding before the sound of a throat being cleared interrupted them.  
   
"Well done, DCI Hunt. It seems that congratulations are in order."   
   
Gene swung his gaze to Sinclair, his eyes narrowing. The slimy bastard had not only shagged Sam, but had then left him on stakeout on his own and heaven help him if Sam had actually been injured, and all right he wasn't, but even so—  
   
His train of thought, which was probably leading towards Gene's fist introducing itself to Sinclair's nose, was fortunately derailed by the entrance of Superintendent Rathbone. The noise level in the room took a sudden dip.  
   
"Good work, Gene. Well done – to you and the team." Rathbone produced a bottle of scotch from behind his back and handed it to Gene, clapping him on the shoulder.  
   
"Thank you very much, Sir. Much appreciated."   
   
Rathbone turned to their visitor.  
   
"Well, DCI Sinclair. This was an ideal case for you to observe; I understand you were on the spot, so to speak."  
   
Sinclair smiled, but Gene thought he could detect a hint of unease beneath the smooth, polished manner. Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other but said nothing.  
   
Gene sniffed, like a hound scenting blood. "I think DI Tyler was actually first on the scene."  
   
Sinclair shot him a glance, but he replied in agreement. "Yes, that's right."  
   
Rathbone rocked back on his heels. "Oh. I thought you were on stakeout. Seeing how we do it here in Manchester."  
   
"Ah, yes. But I had…ah…just popped out to get lunch."  
   
Rathbone blinked at him.  
   
"Well, as it's my last day I wanted to treat DI Tyler to something nice. To say thank you."   
   
Rathbone's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. "You clearly do things _very_ differently in London."  
   
   
***  
   
   
A couple of hours later Gene slumped into his chair and closed his eyes.   
   
The others had headed to the pub, and Sinclair had finally pushed off  - to annoy the next CID department on his list, presumably – and it was probably just a matter of time before Sam followed him.   
   
Desperate measures were called for. But what, exactly? If Sam was a bird it would be easy: buy her flowers and take her to dinner. If she looked interested then go for a goodnight kiss.   
   
But short of shoving Sam up against a wall and snogging him senseless Gene doubted that his DI was going to get the message. He considered that idea for a moment: it sounded crass but might just be worth a try…  
   
"Well, he's gone, then."  
   
Gene managed not to move a muscle at the sound of Sam's voice, although it owed more to his bone-tiredness than to his nerves of steel. "Good bloody riddance," he muttered.  
   
"He offered me a job…but you already know that, don't you."  
   
Gene cracked open an eye to see Sam leaning on the doorframe.  
   
"I turned him down, though." Sam stepped closer.   
   
Gene opened the other eye and sat up a little. "Good." He peered at Sam more closely.  
"What happened to the shirt?"  
   
Sam glanced down. "Oh, I found I had a spare in my locker so I gave James his shirt back before he left." He looked back up at Gene. "Nothing happened, you know. In his hotel room. Single beds; all above-board."  
   
Gene squinted at him. He wasn't sure, but this time the nausea in his gut felt awfully like relief.  
   
Sam was eyeing him carefully. "So the practical jokes, and all the general pissing DCI Sinclair off this week - that was just, what, because you didn't like his fancy clothes and his poncy accent? Or you didn't like him sniffing around your territory?"  
   
Gene gave a non-committal shrug, unsure as to where this conversation might be going.   
   
Sam stepped towards the desk, holding Gene's gaze. "Or because you didn't want me to leave?"  
   
Gene considered for a moment. "Let's say all of the above."  
   
"Well, that's strange because most of the time you act like I'm just a pain in the arse."  
   
"You _are_ a pain in the arse, Tyler. Doesn't necessarily mean I want to get rid of you."  
   
Sam cocked his head to one side as though waiting for something.   
   
Gene sighed, and then continued. "Well, we've got a good thing going. I mean, you know, a good team. Why ruin something which works perfectly well?"  
   
Sam took another step, leaning forward and placing both hands flat on Gene's desk, his tone turning intimate as he closed the space between them.   
   
"Not all changes are for the worse, you know."   
   
Gene's mouth had gone suddenly dry. Was he—?  
   
"In fact, I'd say some new things are definitely worth trying. Get yourself out of a rut. Give something different a go. Take a risk."  
   
"Yeah?"  
   
Sam nodded, slow and deliberate, a glint of something in his eyes that Gene couldn't remember having seen before.  
   
Gene cleared his throat. "In that case, how about we try out that new Indian restaurant on Bateman Street. Tomorrow night. My shout."  
   
Sam's smile spread into a wide grin. "Right. You can pick me up at 7pm." He pushed away from the desk and walked to the door, pausing briefly to glance back at Gene, his look knowing and direct. "Oh, and wear the green shirt."  
   
Then he was gone, leaving Gene open-mouthed in his wake.  
   
   
***  
   
_One month later_  
   
   
That particular morning started out pretty much the same as any other.   
   
Gene awoke to find Sam's elbow an inch or so from the end of his nose. Annoying little git wriggled around so much during the night it was a wonder he hadn't had Gene's eye out before now.   
   
Sam stirred in his sleep, rolling over to sling an arm and a leg over Gene, his morning erection pressing against Gene's thigh. No need for an alarm these days, Gene thought wryly.  
   
He glanced at the clock: they would need to get up soon if he was going to stop off at the canteen before work.    
   
Sam shifted a little closer, making a small sleepy sound, and Gene slid an arm around him. He turned to press his nose into Sam's hair and inhaled slowly.   
   
His bacon butty could wait.  
   
***


End file.
